It was just before 6am when the tuk tuk we’d arranged the night before arrived. We’d been waiting in the lobby with our bags. I tossed them in and asked him to take us to the bus station.

We didn’t expect Phonsavanh to be so cold in the morning. It must have been close to freezing and we were wearing shorts and sandals. We never went over 30kph, but the tuk tuk was open to the elements and our teeth were chattering when we arrived at the bus station on the outskirts of town.

We showed our tickets and shoved our bags underneath the bus. Oksana climbed aboard to claim our seats while I looked over the snacks at the station kiosks. I started up a conversation with the only other tourists in sight. Derek and Paulien were from the Netherlands and had just traveled through all the same places we’d been, going all the way back to Phuket, in Thailand. When I asked them if they were going to Vietnam, too, they looked relieved. It always feels good when you get independent verification about the bus you’re about to get on.

Shortly we were underway, but our driver took us on a tour of Phonsavanh before pointing us in the direction of Vietnam. By the time we’d arrived at the border, I’d read a few chapters of my dog-eared copy of Kitchen Confidential and watched a movie on my iPhone.

The Laotian side was nothing more than a concrete corridor with a row of windows along one side. Unaware of the protocol, Derek, Paulien, Oksana and I neglected to add our passports to the stack from our bus, so we were the last to get our exit stamps. Bringing up the rear, we hefted our bags and hiked across the border.

The immigration office on the Vietnamese side was a different beast altogether. High-ceilinged and full of echoes, we gawked a bit when we entered. Instead of the loops and swirls of Laotian, the signage was written in a Roman-derived alphabet. The plentiful and peculiar accent marks were the only clue that one should not pronounce them without first learning more about the language.

Beyond the tall glass doors, a long counter sat in the sunlight. As we entered, an official behind the desk pointed to a waiting area with rows of airport-style plastic chairs. I set my bags down in front of one, turned back, and raised my eyebrows. Here?(more…)

I’ll admit that I knew hardly anything about Laos before entering the country. Our friend, Wendy, did the initial planning for the trip – she was the one that picked the border crossing so we could take a two-day trip down the Mekong River (which was half awesome and half horrible and the latter was not her fault.)

Going into a country without knowing much about it is a lot like watching a movie without seeing the trailer first. Knowing what you’re in for doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll enjoy it any more or less. I’m happy to say I enjoyed our time in Laos and, even though we were only there eight days, I learned a lot more about the country that I thought I would.

Pronunciation

Okay, first off, it’s “Lao” not “Laos.” The French added the ‘s’ during their Indochina occupation and it’s silent besides.

The people are Lao, the country is Lao. Technically, Laotians call their country “Muang Lao,” or “Pathet Lao,” both of which translate to “Lao Country.” When the French came along, they united three separate Lao kingdoms and so it sort of made sense (in their language) to pluralize the name of the new territory.